


Real Estate

by ignipes



Category: House M.D.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-20
Updated: 2006-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, an empty house, a bottle of wine, and a remote-control fireplace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Estate

He lets himself in through the front door and calls, "Anybody home?"

His voice echoes. The house is almost empty. The useless decorative tables are gone from the entry way, as are the paintings and mirror that used to hang above the stairway. He glances through the doorways; the dining room and study contain nothing but a couple of closed cardboard boxes.

"In here." Wilson's voice is quiet and distant.

"That's helpful," House mutters. "Here, where?" His footsteps and cane are loud on the wooden floor as he walks toward the back of the house; the area rugs are gone, too. There are more cardboard boxes in the kitchen, but the furniture is gone and the room smells faintly of lemon cleanser. The whitewashed cabinets and white tiles seem to glow in the darkness.

He finds Wilson sitting on the floor in the living room, leaning against the wall across from the unlit fireplace. He has a bottle of wine in one hand and his eyes are closed. There is a remote control on the floor beside him.

House leans on his cane and looks down. "Drunk already?"

Wilson holds up the unopened bottle and overturns it. "Packed the corkscrew already."

"Sober still? That's even worse." House steps forward and lowers himself, very carefully, to the floor beside Wilson. "It demonstrates a depressing lack of foresight."

"It's my greatest failing."

"I don't know about that." House digs his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Wilson. "You have a lot of failings."

"You have a corkscrew on your keychain?"

"Be prepared, that's my motto."

"I find it hard to believe you were ever a Boy Scout."

"Would you believe me if I told you I was a Girl Scout?"

Wilson shakes his head, then begins twisting the screw into the cork. "Only if you still have the uniform to prove it, with the skirt and all the little badges."

House leans over, bumping his shoulder against Wilson's, and leers. "You want to see my doctor badge?"

That earns a slight smile. "I'm far too sober to fall for a line like that," Wilson says. He pulls the cork from the bottle and takes a swig, then passes the wine to House.

"The night is young," House replies. He picks up the remote control and says, "The television's gone. This won't do much good."

"It's for the fireplace."

"Your fireplace has a remote control?"

"Welcome to the twenty-first century."

House takes a drink of wine and passes the bottle back to Wilson. He has never noticed before how big this room is. With the sofas removed, the curtains gone from the windows, and all the lights off, it seems positively cavernous. "I never liked this place," he says. "Too many damn windows. It's like being in a fishbowl. A suburban fishbowl with a three-car garage."

"Don't throw stones if you live in a glass office."

"I don't like that, either," House says. "Somebody's always watching."

"Only to make sure you're not doing anything illegal or unethical." A brief pause, then Wilson adds, "I guess they're not watching very carefully." Another pause, longer this time, then: "Julie liked it."

"Not enough to keep it," House points out.

House feels the rise and fall of Wilson's shrug against his own shoulder. "It'll sell."

"Of course it will. It has a remote-control fireplace." House presses a button on the remote, and across the room flames flicker around the fake logs in the fireplace. The room is filled with a warm orange glow. "Or you could keep it," House says, "for the next wife."

Wilson snorts, not quite a laugh, but almost. "That's a good idea. I should have thought of that two wives ago. That's a much better real estate plan than buying a new house each time."

"No," House says, with exaggerated patience. "What you should have thought of two wives ago is not getting married again, because you're no good at it."

He doesn't expect a reply, but Wilson sighs, drinks from the wine bottle again, and says, "Yeah. Probably."

"So I can say 'I told you so' now?"

"You mean you haven't been saying it more or less continually for the last several years? I must have misheard you."

House turns to look at Wilson, studying his profile in the firelight. "You should listen more carefully."

Wilson glances at him, his expression puzzled, then passes the wine bottle to House. After a moment he says, slowly, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Well." House clears his throat. "Look on the bright side: you can't possibly get any more pathetic than you are right now, sitting on the floor in an empty house even your soon-to-be-ex-wife doesn't want, drinking a bottle of crappy wine in bad company."

"Very crappy wine," Wilson agrees, and House can feel him relax, leaning just a bit more heavily on House's shoulder. "Company's not so bad, though. And I'm definitely not keeping this place. I never liked it."

"Too many damn windows."

Wilson laughs, a genuine laugh this time. "Too many by far."


End file.
